


Just the beginning

by Eyvaera



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: FrUK, FrUKnewyears2015, FrUk Gift Exchange, Human AU, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-23
Updated: 2015-01-23
Packaged: 2018-03-08 16:43:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3216185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eyvaera/pseuds/Eyvaera
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the FrUK Gift Exchange on tumblr.<br/>The prompt was: "Professional-exorcist-master-of-the-dark-arts!Francis and your-regular-bystander-that-somehow-got-caught-up-in-the-middle-of-the-'Angels vs Demons'-mess!Arthur. The names are fancy and big, but it is pretty simple, even cliché."</p>
<p>Customary quotation: "The stranger, however, merely raises a thick, bushy eyebrow at him, and answers quite calmly in a crisp English accent. “Yes, quite a commotion. I am, however, reading.”"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just the beginning

**Author's Note:**

> My original notes to the recipient: "I’m not too sure how close this is to what you wanted, and I apologise for the delay and that it wasn’t longer. The premise I settled on was a start to a future relationship between them, in a (hopefully) humorous way. If it turns out that I mistook what you wanted, I hope this is still alright for you ^^"

* * *

 

                        He hadn’t noticed him at first. He was easy to miss, in a way – an inconspicuous figure quite nonchalantly reading a newspaper on a bench out of the way, shaded by a tree above him. He was dressed for the spring weather, wearing a thick, long coat and a tweed scarf that trailed down onto the bench beside him. He looked so thoroughly engrossed in his reading that Francis almost forgot that this was assuredly _not_ normal.

                        “Excusez-moi!” Francis calls out, and the stranger lifts his head. “What ah, are you doing? Can’t you see what’s going on around you?!” With a wide, sweeping gesture, Francis indicates the chaos behind him – the twisting dark swirls of the clouded sky, intermitted occasionally with flashes of bright light, exuding enough of an ominous aura to indicate quite clearly that something is amiss. This is, of course, without mentioning the wrecked and somewhat aflame buildings nearby, nor the several odd-looking figures that flit and challenge each other close to the mess. Francis, from his somewhat tinged and smoke-tainted clothes, seems not at odds with them, and from the mix of confusion and haste written into his expression, it seems that is where he feels he should be.

                        The stranger, however, merely raises a thick, bushy eyebrow at him, and answers quite calmly in a crisp English accent. “Yes, quite a commotion. I am, however, reading.”

                        Francis almost slaps a hand to his face out of frustration. The man before him is acting as though this is all perfectly normal and everyday – and although Francis could claim that it is, he is quite sure that this man cannot.

 

                        “ _’Commotion’??_ Are you blind?! We are fighting a battle and you are just---just _sitting there_ as if nothing is happening!”

                        The man levelled an unperturbed look in his direction, and Francis narrowed his eyes as he saw a minute shrug from those slender shoulders. “Whatever hooligan behaviour you are engaging in over there is of no interest to me. That your fellows took a building out in the process is rather unusual, but still not as diverting as page three today.” With this, he raised his newspaper again, as if the matter was therefore closed.

                        It was not.

                        With a look of irritation, Francis got close enough to stare down at the seated man from over the top of his paper, although if the man cared about the angry shadow blocking out the grimy remnants of sunshine that somehow managed to streak through the overcast sky, he gave no outward indication.

                        “What is your name?”

                        “What is _yours?”_ The man retorted without missing a beat, and if it did not look so ugly on his otherwise handsome face, the Frenchman would have scowled.

                        “Francis. Francis Bonnefoy.”

                        “Arthur Kirkland. And what is it, _Bonnefoy,_ that you do?”

                        “I… am an exorcist.” Well, that was the simplest way to put it. Any more information and he’d have to explain the other side of the world that he was involved in – the side that Arthur here casually chose to ignore in favour of his paper.

                        “Mmhm. Shouldn’t you be, ah… sucking up ghosts in some abandoned house?”

                        “Wha—? No!” Francis exclaimed. “That’s not what we—you are joking with me, you infuriating man!” The small smirk on Arthur’s features was enough to confirm his accusation, and in an act of spite, Francis pushed the paper down from his face. That certainly got Arthur’s attention, for he shot him a truly vicious scowl.

                        “If you don’t mind…” Arthur began, teeth gritted and his tone laced with layers of ‘if you don’t remove your hand right now, _I_ will remove it and then insert it someplace less pleasant’. Francis lifted his hand away again, crossing his arms over his chest to lessen the temptation to simply rip the paper to shreds and shoo the man along.

                        “If _you_ don’t mind, you should not be here! It is not safe!” This received an amused chuckle and the brandishing of a long umbrella in his direction.

                        “If I’m set upon, I’m quite prepared.”

                        Francis blinked. “An _umbrella?_ You think _that_ will protect you?!”

                        “I was quite safe before you decided to saunter over, so yes.” With this, he raised the newspaper again, and it took a great amount of will for Francis not to snatch it out of his hands.

                       

                        It was perhaps a good minute before he decided on his next course of action, for it was rather clear that Arthur was in no way prepared to move without… _encouragement._ Before he could enact his plan, however, Arthur spoke up again.

                        “What makes you so insistent that I not be here, anyway? Planning to commit a crime?” He peered over the top of his newspaper at the burning building, as if wondering whether he could attribute that to his French acquaintance or not.

                        “No. It is for your own safety—“

                        “Cut the crap,” came the sharp retort. “You don’t even know me, and I’ve made it perfectly clear that I am content to sit here and read whilst you go gallivanting around, performing pseudo-exorcisms—“

                        “You are taking things out of context—“

                        “And vandalising public properties,” Arthur finished. “Therefore, the only reason you could want me gone is so that I am not a witness to whatever happens next.”

                        “Well…” Francis had to admit that last bit was somewhat true. “It wouldn’t be good for you to stick around to watch the conclusion, no. But that in no way means--!”

                        “Doesn’t it?” That paper was down again now, actually folded upon the Englishman’s lap. “Either way, you wish me out of the vicinity, and I do not intend to leave. So what are you going to do about it?”

                        Francis had no desire to hurt an innocent – otherwise aggravating – bystander, but manhandling was not out of the question, and so manhandle he did – or tried to do. It turned out that not only was Arthur the same height as him once standing, but that they were of equal strength. Francis’ skills were not physicality-based, but he thought himself fit, and apparently Arthur’s outwardly lean physique hid a body of surprising strength. He soon found that they matched each other, and that the rough and tumble escapade that they were currently engaged in – with Arthur attempting to throw Francis to the ground and Francis attempting to restrain him – was essentially futile. He tried to explain this to Arthur, but received the skim of a punch against his jaw for the trouble. Arthur was, apparently, somewhat ‘feisty’.

                       

                        “Listen to m—“ He was cut off by an elbow’s jab to his ribs, “oof”ing from the impact. With a disgruntled protest, he aimed a kick at Arthur’s leg, unsteadying him. Before the other man could fall, he grabbed his arm. “Stop it!”

                        _“You_ begun it!” Came the quick and easy retort, and Francis sighed, releasing him again once the Englishman had regained his bearings.

                        “That may be so, but is only for your safety!” His insistence was addressed by Arthur’s newspaper, which in its rolled-up form did quite a good job of hitting him around the head. It was as if he was pesky vermin, or a wasp annoying the prim man by buzzing around his tea or sandwiches, and Francis wondered why he was even bothering with him. Still, stubborn as the man was – and stubborner even than Francis, he was sure – he still wasn’t going to give up so soon. Therefore, with a satisfying flourish, he whipped the paper out of Arthur’s hand, threw it deliberately upon the ground, and with no small amount of satisfaction, proceeded to trample it.

                        Arthur was, understandably, not pleased. The next thing he knew, the pointy – and hard – end of Arthur’s umbrella was jabbing him in the tender area of his ribcage.

                        _“You,”_ the angry man spat, “will be buying me a new paper.”

                        “Oh! _Excellent!”_ Francis exclaimed with false cheer. “Let us go buy one now!”

                        “You little--!” Arthur’s scowl darkened, and the umbrella jabbed a little harder. “Why don’t you just go back to your ‘witchy ways’ and I’ll sit here, _in peace_ , as I was quite happy to do before you inconsiderately approached me.”

                        It was all he could do not to roll his eyes, although his next remark was somewhat interrupted by the sound of chanting and what _may_ have been an agonising death scream from behind him. Francis winced instead, though his expression quickly turned exasperated as he saw that Arthur _still_ looked unperturbed. Maybe he’d got it wrong – maybe Arthur _was_ part of this, and he was simply waiting for the right moment to join, feigning ignorance and delaying Francis in his essential tasks.

                        … No, he decided after a prolonged moment of looking Arthur over – something that he noted caused a mixed reaction of both spluttering indignation and the hint of colour to his cheeks – he was just a man with an inflated amount of self-importance and a peculiar attachment or habit of sitting on benches while the world crashed down around him. Perhaps it was nothing new, then? He may have to find out.

                       

                        “What _are_ you looking at?!” The accusation drew Francis from his thoughts, and he sighed and rubbed his eyes wearily. If his line of work didn’t age him quickly, prolonged exposure to this man could.

                        “You, being stupid.” He replied at last, and then picked up Arthur’s newspaper from where it had been thoroughly worked into the dirt, valiantly attempting to brush it off. Arthur looked distinctly unimpressed with his efforts when he attempted to hand it back, however.

                        “Keep it. It’s as dirty as you.” It was obvious he wasn’t talking about sexual habits, but of character, and it became apparent that Francis had not exactly made a good impression so far. He’d strode over, almost demanded he leave, then half-assaulted him and vandalised his possessions. It was not exactly becoming of him, though he suspected Arthur’s grumpy, biting demeanour may be his usual one, nonetheless. Still…

                        “Je suis désolé,” he apologised, bending his head in a symbol of his sincerity. “Ah, by that I mean—“

                        “Apology accepted,” the man gruffly replied before he could finish. “If you think I only know simple French, you’d be surprised; so don’t go insulting me and expect me not to understand.”

                        Francis cracked a half-smile and nodded. “Noted.”

                        There was a moment of silence before Arthur spoke up again. “You still want me to leave, don’t you?” Francis nodded in response, and the Englishman frowned. “Tell me, then… what’s that all about?”

                        “You wouldn’t believe me—“ At the look he received, he quickly added, “but I’ll tell you anyway.” With a sigh and a deep intake of breath, he attempted to summarise the situation.

                        “Put simply: the Angels and Demons are fighting. You’d perhaps speculate that such a thing is nothing new, but they decided to… take it to Earth, this time. I wouldn’t call that a wise decision, but wars are never wise. You might be wondering what my role is then, if you believe me. Well… I am, as I said, an exorcist. Specifically, I get rid of those demons who try to drag humans into the conflict; possessions, bad deals… that sort of thing.” He glanced over at Arthur to search for a reaction, but the other man had an undecipherable expression across his pale features.

                        “That all?”

                        “No… I suppose not. I ah… ‘dabble’ in the dark arts, a little.” This, of all things, caused Arthur’s eyebrows to raise.

                        “ _You?_ Ahaha…” Arthur chuckled a little, and Francis wondered why, until he explained. “As do I, though not it seems, as seriously as you do. One could call it a hobby, although yours possibly seems at odds with your profession.” Francis gave a small shrug. It’d take too long to explain right now.

                        A glance back over his shoulder told him that the battle was still waging, with or without his involvement. Even so, he felt like he should be getting back to it, regardless.

                        “Ah, you know, Arthur… this is still not the best place for you, hobby or not.”

                        This time, to his surprise, he received a curt nod. “I’m aware. I’m not saying that I believe you, or that I don’t – however, I believe a further explanation _will_ be necessary. Perhaps if I come back here later—“

                        “Ah, no.” Francis shook his head resolutely. “Absolutely not. This area is weakened to their realms right now, and will be for a while longer. If we are to meet again, it should be elsewhere.”

                        “… Fine, but you owe me a newspaper.”

                        Francis’ smile grew wider. “And perhaps a drink?” He probed.

                        Sharp green eyes met his own blue ones, and it was a protracted moment indeed before he got his response. “Tea. That café two streets away – red exterior, you know the one?”

                        “I do. Noon tomorrow?”

                        Arthur gave a nod in acquiescence. “Fine. If you’re late, I’m making you pay for cake.” And then, with a flash of a smile – so quick it could barely be called it – he turned and walked away from both Francis and the bench, scarf trailing in the wind. Francis was left with a dirtied newspaper, an arrangement for a… date, perhaps? And…

                        … he turned back to observe the scene behind him. Ah well. His work may never be done, but he had tomorrow to look forward to, and with further consideration, he thought that perhaps spending time with Arthur would not be as bad as he’d considered it to be mere moments before.


End file.
